Music is a big part of kitchen life: there's always a radio burbling in the background or some poor pot wash singing of lament and longing. The isle is full of noises, and the first draft of the novel was thronged with songs and sounds to echo that. It was a joyous, wonderful thing. But my publisher pointed out that sample rights were expensive and my kneecaps were easily breakable, so I had to kill my darlings. I thank Largehearted Boy for letting them live again.

Kate Bush, "Eat The Music"
An apt song for the exercise. Also a good example, I think, of the sort of merry sadism kitchens revel in. At first glance it seems happy, but the lyrics are all ripping out hearts and splitting people open.

The Animals, "We Gotta Get Out of This Place"
We used to sing this during clean down. Eight chefs screaming along at the top of their lungs. Extraordinary rendition. I don't know if any of The Animals ever worked in the service industry, but they nailed its effect on the soul.

Snoop Doggy Dogg, "Gin and Juice"
Gangsta rap and kitchens have so much in common. Barefaced attitude. Ludicrous bragging. Ingenious threats. A questionable, medieval outlook on women. Chefs are forever seeking fresh ways to offend. We need new insults, to misquote another writer.

The Stranglers, "Nice n Sleazy"
Since the book is set in a gastropub in Camden Town, we've got to have something punkish and swaggering. I'm a big fan of the insane synth solo halfway through.

Wicked, "Defying Gravity"
This was the favorite song of the sous chef at the last place I worked. He was a massive Northern guy with a big Smokey and the Bandit Burt Reynolds moustache. He used to bellow this song out with great sincerity, and tuneful he was not. "Something has changed within me / Something is not the same / I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game."

Tempa T, "Next Hype"
In my selection, I've tried to do justice to the diversity – and downright schizophrenia – of chefs' listening habits. After the Wicked soundtrack, the logical step would be some filthy grime. It's the sort of drastic switch which has left some chefs permanently stuck somewhere between Mary Poppins and Dizzee Rascal. This particular delicacy is five years old and remains the angriest song in the world. For evidence of rap's Sphinx-like presence in modern English, I ask you to consider the phrase "boy off da ting". It is used in six different sentences in the space of 12 seconds, and I still couldn't really tell you what it means.

Harry Nilsson, "Jump into the Fire"
Though less psychedelic than the previous offering, Nilsson's song is also all about the monumental build. This is how service feels in the kitchen: the slow gathering of elements as one by one each section joins the fray; the momentum swelling, insisting, dragging you along; every onslaught wilder and fiercer than the last. At two minutes in to this song your knee is trembling. At four minutes your whole body is shaking. At six minutes you've lost your shirt, shoes and house keys. And that lyric: "You can jump into the fire / But you'll never be free." Is there a chef alive who wouldn't appreciate that sentiment?